


Shattered

by OrmondSacker



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Despair, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotions, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 19:42:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10838082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrmondSacker/pseuds/OrmondSacker
Summary: To the world Chirrut Îmwe is indomitable, whatever the galaxy throws at him he meets it with teeth bared in something that is half smile, half threat. The other side, the one with scars, the one that bleeds and breaks only Baze sees.





	Shattered

**Author's Note:**

> For Anon who asked for Spiritassasin and the line "Just shut up and kiss me". I finagled with the line to make it fit and of course since this is me, it got very sad.
> 
> Thank you to missmonty for invaluable assistance in finishing this.

Baze knows that no other being gets to see Chirrut like this, tired, defeated, broken. Once upon a time there were more than just him, though their numbers had always been few, but all of them are gone now along with the temple. Only Baze remains. 

It is painful to see the man he holds dearer than his own life sitting like this, crumbled on the floor of their small, dilapidated room: his shoulders sagging, head bent and hands hanging limp from the wrists as they rest on his knees. Dust and sand colors part of his black robe grey and a streak of rust brown – blood slowly drying – cuts across the naked skin of his lower left arm. 

But as heart rendering as the sight of Chirrut is, part of Baze cannot help but feel honored by Chirrut's trust in him, that he allows himself to be so vulnerable in Baze's company. It is a trust he had feared lost once, 

Though just because Chirrut trusts Baze with his wounds, of heart as well as body, doesn't always mean that Baze is able to help him. Not that there is anything in the galaxy that will keep Baze Malbus from trying to. 

Turning to the small stove Baze begins making tea. He fill but a single cup, this is for his love alone. 

He kneels down beside Chirrut, the floor hard and cold beneath his kneecaps, the muscles in his injured leg protesting at the strain. A protest Baze summarily ignores. Taking Chirrut's hands he folds them hands around the cup, hands that are barely strong enough to hold it on their own. 

But hold it Chirrut does and lifts it closer to his face, breathing the scent of the tea.  

Baze remains where he is, palms lying flat against his thighs, leg still protesting, as he watches Chirrut's shoulders rise and fall as he breathes. Watches as Chirrut slowly, so slowly that it is almost agonizing, lifts the cup to his lips and drinks. 

He knows that it is for him that Chirrut does it, so that he won't worry more than he already does. To lift a burden from Baze's shoulders, even though Baze also knows that Chirrut can hardly carry himself at this moment. Bu Chirrut has always been willing to shoulder Baze's weight no matter what. 

When the cup is empty Chirrut places it on the floor next to him, opposite the side Baze sits at, leaving no barrier between them.  

The gesture spurs Baze to put a hand on Chirrut's shoulder. He feels the coarse weave of the fabric of Chirrut's robe, the hard bone and unyielding muscles beneath as well as the tiny tremors that runs though it. 

He digs his fingers into the muscle and bone, uses enough strength that Chirrut can feel it, but there is no response from the man, no hint of that little tilt of his head he makes when he's attentive. With only a moments hesitance, a hesitance sparked by the worry that his action might drive Chirrut further into himself, Baze leans forward and wraps his whole arm around Chirrut's shoulders. 

Still no response. 

Sliding his free arm under Chirrut's knees, Baze lifts him up easily and rises to his feet, ignoring the jab of pain from the damaged leg. 

The only response from Chirrut is that he puts his arms around Baze's neck to help take some of his weight off though that is entirely unnecessary. Build though Chirrut is out of hard and heavy muscle, to Baze he weighs less than a feather as he carries him to their bed. 

As Baze lays him down on it Chirrut's hands curl into his shirt and tugs on it, silently pleading for him to stay. Baze puts his own hands on top of them, encircling them in his own as he raises them to his lips and kisses the knuckles, feeling the split, abraded skin before lying down beside Chirrut and pulling into his arms. 

Chirrut lies heavy and limp against Baze, head resting listlessly on his chest and Baze is unsurprised when he feels his shirt begins to soak. There are no real overt signs that Chirrut is crying, he has always been good at hiding it. A slight irregularity in his breath, tremors in his shoulder too fine to be seen, Baze can only feel them because he holds the man so close. Anyone stranding and watching would most likely think Chirrut sleeping.  

But Baze could tell even before the first tear fell. If asked, he would say that it is because he knows Chirrut so well, that he has loved and lived with him so long that he can tell. He will certainly never credit the Force, refuses to acknowledge that the shared pain, the knives that cuts in his heart, his intimate knowledge of a deep spiritual conflict raging in Chirrut's mind have no other explanations. 

The knowledge of the doubts that are dogging Chirrut's heels makes Baze wish he still had faith, that he had not rejected the Force, if only so he could offer Chirrut answer, or just the solace of shared anguish. But the place in Baze's spirit where faith once resided is now dark and empty, only occasionally illuminated by Chirrut, and he has no words to offer him. So instead he lets on large hand cup Chirrut's jaw, callused thumb gently caressing the high cheek bone, brushing away the wetness it finds there, and tilts his head up ever so slightly so that Baze can kiss his brow. 

Finally Chirrut moves, just a little, sidling up Baze body and tipping he head so that their lips touch.  

The kisses are no more than pecks, soft brushes of closed lips. Chirrut's are wet and taste of salt, and Baze feels tears drip on his skin, sliding down and soaking into his hair and beard. 

He pushes Chirrut back a little and studies his face. The lines of age, ordinarily too faint to be noticed, draws deep furrows across his face, making him look as old as Baze feels. Baze opens his mouth to say something, anything at all, even if it is just to start an argument. Then at least Chirrut could find an opponent to rally himself against, someone to rail at. 

But before he can speak Chirrut raises one finger and puts it against Baze's lips, the underlying statement clear: "please be silent and kiss me again". 

Baze nods once, knowing that Chirrut will be able to feel the movement with his hand, then removes the finger and resumes kissing his love. 

To the world Chirrut Îmwe is indomitable, whatever the galaxy throws at him he meets it with teeth bared in something that is half smile, half threat. The other side, the one with scars, the one that bleeds and breaks only Baze sees. And if the touch of his lips is a balm on Chirrut's injured spirit, then Baze will continue to apply it for as long as it is needed.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you feel more comfortable yelling at me in private, you can do that on [tumblr](http://luminousfinn.tumblr.com/).


End file.
